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Steven McNevets Jul 2015
I mourn for me
because mourning is all I feel.
I mourn the souls forgone
lost brethren denied the dawn of a new day
I mourn the aborted children
lights of the world shinning
only in the beyond.
I mourn for the breast that never gave suckle
to a child
and the child that never ****** breast.
I mourn for broken homes
The genesis of a rotten society.
I mourn for children and graduates
on the streets chasing vehicles
and turning to our own Usain Bolt.
I mourn youths basking
in the decadence of morality.
I mourn the ideology
that everyone MUST go to school.
Creativity lies dead
and a certificate is the only aim in our head.
I mourn because of what I see on TV
Vixens displaying **** bodies like CV
I mourn for my sisters, aunties cousins nieces;
Victims of domestic violence.
I mourn because they agonize in silence
I mourn for inmates in cells,
Cells worse than hell;
I mourn for those innocent crimes
those locked up for a little fine.
I mourn for creative minds
discouraged by the webbed hands of piracy.
I mourn for the Fallen Giant, NIGERIA,
chained hands and feet,
Master of corruption
and slaves of procrastination.
I mourn the incessant fuel scarcity,
half baked graduates
from the substandard oven
of our varsities.
I mourn 'cause we have lost the way.
These are what I mourn for,
I mourn for this and more..........
when will yonder future
glue back dreams with suture?
shattered dreams is what I mourn for
being amidst sorrows that hollow our fellow.
I mourn for war victims
in Gaza, Syria and Nigeria
that wakes not with joy.
look at that girl and boy
their bloods spilled on our soil.
I mourn for you, my queen and Roy.
with piety I pray thee sweet eternity.
I mourn for forgotten souls
What does yonder holds for us?
I mourn lost heroes;
those that sleeps with saddened pillows.
I mourn
I mourn,
how many wake
to see the dawn?
I wait the day when we shall wake and say..."GOOD MOURNING"
yes, 'cause corruption is dead........ nepotism, tribalism, racism, piracy.... all dead, never to see them again, even in the world beyond.
So I say Good Mourning...
They never ask if I'm mourning
I am
You see I mourn for society
I mourn for those who prefer made up words and slang
Over heartfelt honest ones
I mourn for everyone who cannot express their true feelings
I mourn for those who value money more than love
And for those who see me as mutant
I'm perfectly fine but I mourn for the last great generation
And I mourn knowing I'm one of few uncoruptted in mine
I mourn in black for the dealers who are 14
And for the single mothers who are 13
I mourn for the homeless
And I mourn for the judging
I mourn for the models who will never eat and keep it down
I mourn for the cutters who never stop bleeding
I mourn for the world we have become and all the chaos surroundung us
I mourn for their curiosity
And most of all I mourn for myself for letting it all hurt me.
longest tittle everrrrr and well i wrote this a few days ago about our corrupt society
Frankie Fuller Nov 2015
Mourn on my own



I have something to
say in a gentle way
please don't hug me
because i'm a conservative man
meek and gentle
please let me mourn on my own
i'm an introverted soul
and you would never
understand me alone
please don't hug me
no thank you
let me mourn on my own
i'm an introverted soul
i can't put my tears
on exhibition to be seen

shy and gentle
please don't hug me
i will say it in a gentle way
please don't hug me
i'm an introverted man
please let me mourn on my own
i want to ponder on my own
i want to be alone
please don't hug me
i'm a conservative man
gentle of meek
and full of complexity
i'm an introverted soul
and i can't put my tears
on exhibition to be seen
please don't hug me
i'm a conservative man
let me mourn on my own
i'm not a talkative man
i'm an introverted soul
please don't hug me
let me ponder my feelings on my own
because i'm a conservative man of tone
i can't put my tears on exhibition to be seen
please let me mourn on my own
i'm not a talkative soul
please don't hug me
i'm an introverted soul
and most will never understand me alone
please don't hug me
i'm a conservative man
i will mourn on my own
i want to ponder the unknown
and my feelings are not an open book
i will mourn on my own
Midnight Rain Dec 2016
my eyes mourn the memories
that we had yet to make

they mourn the way your
head would've rested in my lap,
the way my fingers would've felt
brushing through the tangles
in your hair

they will mourn you in agony,
in wails that echo so deeply into the
universe,
a cry of silence so loud
that the slightest quiver of a
voice will bring earthquakes
upon earthquakes, shattering the world into
too many halves to count

they will mourn you in ways
that have yet to be known
to mankind

they will mourn the way
you slept;
every rise of your breath, you'd
take me in and in every exhale
i would find myself still lost somewhere
within you
and you'd sleep such a sleep
that your body, bathed in the light of the moon, would be
mere fingertips away from me
as your mind and
soul slowed danced across galaxies
far beyond
human comprehension

and they will mourn
how your every feature would
be redefined into a new
layer of poetry,
that i would never
be able to read


but most of all they will
mourn the way you loved me

completely, irrevocably, madly

and so deeply that the roots
of it reach far past your ancient soul

you are that muse which is worth dying for
over and over again and
you are that poetry which is worth living for
over and over again,

and i am turning to dust,
day by day,
as i mourn the loss
that is yet to come
______________
and even if you're worth living for,
i am dying every day.
_________
there are so many things
to mourn, how can i name them all?
Koh Pei Yi Jul 2016
I mourn the loss. I bury you underneath the soil beneath the earth- the past the present and the future.

You are like the flower I adore, budding and blossoming, pollinating and withering, but there is only one you. As your petals fall your body wilting, you lay still as colors fades into dullness, I mourn the loss.

I mourn the loss. The brain the body and the soul. Your eyes they blink, your mouth they smile now replaced by once upon a time- you were once alive.

I bury you in the abyss of my mind with the trace of your life you left in my heart. When the rain pours as the wind howl, my tears will mimics the raindrops on my face and I will wail along together with the death of my drowning sane. I mourn the loss.

I mourn the loss of what could have been the forevermore but with death comes life.

I bury you underneath the soil beneath the earth- the past the present and the future. A life will emerge from remains of the loss. But before that I will mourn, the loss of all there was to it.

I will mourn.
Eugene Sep 2015
When nature's mourn;
forest will burn,
oceans will rise,
the sun will not shines at daylight,
the moon will not lit in the night.

When nature's mourn;
the weather will stop,
the air will swarm,
the water will subside and power will shut down.

When nature's mourn,
other's will cry,
people will go mad,
religions will summon,
politics will rule.

When nature's mourn,
disrespect will increase,
honesty will lie,
and love will die...
Osiria Melody Feb 2019
It is I, who is shaken by the subliminal
lies said through your eyes
Which are unfaithful to the truth
I'd rather feign my sadness, lest my
existence disturbs you
Drown me in my apprehensions, a
labyrinth of my fragmented ego
Savor my tears, for I have cried enough
to **** my pride
Yet, it is I who is still shaken
My dearest friend, lover

I do not know how to mourn by the river
Taking my soul, all torn and withered
No one can tell me where I lie
Standing upon my ground, goes awry
Hastily making the gravest mistakes
My heart trembles, never quakes
Such tender darkness, so trivial
Makes my voice come alight through my upheavals

Oh, tell me if my fears mean nothing
Throwing my tears against an unknown something
Only burns, the reprimanding light of day
Night, only sense of freedom, in shape
Thunderous words strike my being
Negative washes do cleaning
To breathe is to draw in one less breath
To speak is to utter one less regret

I don't know how to mourn by the river
Drawing me in, my faults come hither
Relentless suffering that visits my head
I wish something else could visit me instead
I don't know how to mourn from the river
Secret despondence, my only killer
My dearest friend, lover
Show me how to mourn by the river



Melody
2/14/19
Grief is like a river which ebbs and flows.
douglas chesa Feb 2012
I see the rigours of time
Etched on your sulky face
Though the sun's fingers caress
The brow of your ambitions
Nostalgia tinkles solemn bells
Of dreams maimed and cobwebbed
By time's blunt knife
I see you mourn

Life is molten wax that congeals
With a caress of the air
Life is a wagon swaggering downhill
A liberating spasms
Of wee wet dreams...
I see you mourn

I see your determination thawing
Like white icicles on white winter window pane
I see your patience wane in pain
Like dry cakes of mud in the African sun
I see your conscience rot and ooze
Black brackish slimy rot
Tomorrow they will declare you
A disaster no-go-area zone
I see you mourn

Emotions thunder, tempers glow
And voice a shrill mingle with unknown
Raucous whispers of the gods of doom
This world has been terribly nice to you
I see you whimper like a miserable dog
That has lost its tail
Brother you have lost your tale
I see you mourn.


-dougwa-
G Rog Rogers Aug 2017
I mourn you for all
that was stolen
I mourn you for all
that was lost

I mourn you that
You were betrodden
Until nothing was
left that once was

Your life had
a beautiful reason
You can't be accused
of living in vain

Your days were made full
of goodness that's lasting
Yet the tragedy of all
that's about you remains

Cry me
because I'm here
without you
Cry you
because you're
gone far away
Cry We
that we lost
all We treasured

I mourn Your loss
forever somewhere
beyond my very last day.

-R.

6.23.17
-LA


-4MAR
©2017
Torin Galleshaw Nov 2016
Do not mourn long for the poet
This world was never made for men as him
Dare see future in destruction
Dare see pleasure in the pain
To be
Was all his only dream

Do not mourn long for the poet
But celebrate and find the truth he hid
So clever in his words
The beatific symbols
Which reveal
The ugliness of the world

Do not mourn long for the poet
Who no longer can create as the world dissipates
And the unknown will be
The only place he
Can ever have the hope
His soul may be at ease

Do not mourn long for the poet
His words were there long before his time
He was just the one to write them down
His future
Was only
Overcome the past
G Rog Rogers Oct 2017
I mourn you for all
that was stolen
I mourn you for all
that was lost

I mourn you that
You were betrodden
Until nothing was
left that once was

Your life had
a beautiful reason
You can't be accused
of living in vain

Your days were made full
of goodness that's lasting
Yet the tragedy of all
that's about you remains

Cry me
because I'm here
without you
Cry you
because you're
gone far away
Cry We
that we lost
all We treasured

I mourn Your loss
forever somewhere
beyond my very last day.

-R.

6.23.17
-LA
-4MAR
Rvsd.

©ASGP
Idonotexist Jan 2014
We mourn in silence
as sun shines everyday
trying to bring rays
of hope and smile
to millions desperate

In darkness of the night
Moon gives hope
through the reflected light
of the golden sun
portraying the same intention
and stars chuckle by
like millions of orphaned
children wandering our dark world

Technology which brought in abundance
has left us in want
machines brought in to give leisure
has left us with no time at all
Virtual net which brought people
miles apart together has resulted
virtual bubbles of gloating egos
we are together yet alone and
isolated in this world of paradox

serpents of guilt keep dancing
around yet the cloak of fear
blinds us we ignore
and without even us realizing
all that we do
along with all other beings
residing on this beautiful earth
we just mourn
blasting our lungs out
in silence
Grizzo Apr 2015
Did you know
over 100,000 people
die every year by
careless drivers, slippery stairs,
not following printed directions,
lapses in common sense,

These are common errors we share.

Some of us get lucky,

we evade, we clutch the banister,
we start at step one,
We double check electrical wires,
& carry scissors blade down,
never running.

People die at work all the time,

on the Monday morning drive,
rear ended in traffic on a rainy
Thursday night.

The 9 to 5 can take you,

spirited away at the desk
during a 45 page monthly report,

you get to cell C83
on worksheet 8
and your heart explodes
from stress,

blood vessels burst in
your brain like black cats
on Halloween night
from strain,

All for a gold watch,
a 401 k,

so your wife can smile
and your children can
play in their backyard.

We do it for 48 hours we can
call our own.

5 days of Hell
for two days in Heaven

means the devils
get their dues
and the gods
give yours to you.

Oh, Weekend
Mourn,
How I love thee.

I wake up
when I wake up,
no alarms needed.

Sometimes I shower after
coffee, sometimes after
dinner.

Death leaves me alone
leaves me to my
streaming movies,
old books
and my poetry.

Oh, Weekend
Mourn
How I love thee

No worksheets.
No stress.
No Death.

Until Monday,

everything is fine,

until Death wakes me
with a whisper

"Get up,
It's almost time."

Oh, Weekend
Mourn
How I love thee.
NaPoWriMo #6

Used the prompt today. Write an aubade. I liked Larkin's take on the Aubade and we share similar views on work. Please leave constructive comments if you notice anything odd.
McNe Oct 2014
Sad lilies adorned in every corner,
How I wish I'd asked you sooner,
Regret's hands, I wish to be free,
Do tell, will you mourn for me?

Gently, let the invisible tears be wiped away,
By the lifeless trees surrounding me as they sway,
Let your heavenly eyes set upon me,
And answer the question; will you mourn for me?

Now dressed in white, pure as snow,
I lie motionless, emitting a sunny glow,
Slowly, you walk your way towards me,
Tell me quickly, will you mourn for me?

With arms wide open, I saw His majesty,
With choir of angels, singing joyfully,
Hesitant to come, for the man is standing right beside me,
The man who will answer the question; will you mourn for me?

No words came from the mouth, the silence is deafening,
Surprised I was as the man began crying,
Could it be me, the reason for him to be blue?
The man whispered, "I am mourning because of you."

The very words made me satisfied,
Now without regrets, I won't be reluctant to return to His side,
Thankful I am for he did answer,
The very question that I wish I'd asked him sooner.

For now I know that he truly adores me,
Too late our love is, how sad for I did not notice nor see,
My love, though I came before you,
Always remember, this heart will still be yearning for you.
Been busy for the past few weeks...
I weep for Adonais—he is dead!
O, weep for Adonais! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
And teach them thine own sorrow, say: “With me
Died Adonais; till the Future dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity!”

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness? where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies
With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.

O, weep for Adonais—he is dead!
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!
Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair
Descend;—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep
Will yet restore him to the vital air;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.

Most musical of mourners, weep again!
Lament anew, Urania!—He died,
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country’s pride,
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide
Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite
Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,
Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite
Yet reigns o’er earth; the third among the sons of light.

Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Not all to that bright station dared to climb;
And happier they their happiness who knew,
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time
In which suns perished; others more sublime,
Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;
And some yet live, treading the thorny road
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame’s serene abode.

But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished—
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,
And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;
Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,
The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste;
The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast.

To that high Capital, where kingly Death
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,
He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,
A grave among the eternal.—Come away!
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.

He will awake no more, oh, never more!—
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
The shadow of white Death, and at the door
Invisible Corruption waits to trace
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law
Of change, shall o’er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.

O, weep for Adonais!—The quick Dreams,
The passion-winged Ministers of thought,
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught
The love which was its music, wander not,—
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,
But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,
They ne’er will gather strength, or find a home again.

And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,
“Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies
A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.”
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise!
She knew not ’twas her own; as with no stain
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.

One from a lucid urn of starry dew
Washed his light limbs as if embalming them;
Another clipped her profuse locks, and threw
The wreath upon him, like an anadem,
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;
Another in her wilful grief would break
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem
A greater loss with one which was more weak;
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.

Another Splendour on his mouth alit,
That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,
And pass into the panting heart beneath
With lightning and with music: the damp death
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips;
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath
Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips,
It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse.

And others came… Desires and Adorations,
Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies,
Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,
Came in slow pomp;—the moving pomp might seem
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.

All he had loved, and moulded into thought,
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
Dimmed the aereal eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned,
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief with his remembered lay,
And will no more reply to winds or fountains,
Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray,
Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day;
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear
Than those for whose disdain she pined away
Into a shadow of all sounds:—a drear
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown,
For whom should she have waked the sullen year?
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both
Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere
Amid the faint companions of their youth,
With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.

Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale
Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun’s domain
Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,
As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast,
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!

Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,
But grief returns with the revolving year;
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;
The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season’s bier;
The amorous birds now pair in every brake,
And build their mossy homes in field and brere;
And the green lizard, and the golden snake,
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake.

Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean
A quickening life from the Earth’s heart has burst
As it has ever done, with change and motion,
From the great morning of the world when first
God dawned on Chaos; in its stream immersed,
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light;
All baser things pant with life’s sacred thirst;
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love’s delight
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.

The leprous corpse, touched by this spirit tender,
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;
Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath
By sightless lightning?—the intense atom glows
A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.

Alas! that all we loved of him should be,
But for our grief, as if it had not been,
And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me!
Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene
The actors or spectators? Great and mean
Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow.
As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,
Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,
Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow.

He will awake no more, oh, never more!
“Wake thou,” cried Misery, “childless Mother, rise
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart’s core,
A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs.”
And all the Dreams that watched Urania’s eyes,
And all the Echoes whom their sister’s song
Had held in holy silence, cried: “Arise!”
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung,
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung.

She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs
Our of the East, and follows wild and drear
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings,
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,
Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear
So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania;
So saddened round her like an atmosphere
Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way
Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay.

Our of her secret Paradise she sped,
Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,
And human hearts, which to her aery tread
Yielding not, wounded the invisible
Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell:
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,
Rent the soft Form they never could repel,
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May,
Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way.

In the death-chamber for a moment Death,
Shamed by the presence of that living Might,
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath
Revisited those lips, and Life’s pale light
Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight.
“Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless,
As silent lightning leaves the starless night!
Leave me not!” cried Urania: her distress
Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress.

“‘Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;
And in my heartless breast and burning brain
That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive,
With food of saddest memory kept alive,
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part
Of thee, my Adonais! I would give
All that I am to be as thou now art!
But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart!

“O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert,
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men
Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den?
Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear?
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere,
The monsters of life’s waste had fled from thee like deer.

“The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
The obscene ravens, clamorous o’er the dead;
The vultures to the conqueror’s banner true
Who feed where Desolation first has fed,
And whose wings rain contagion;—how they fled,
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
And smiled!—The spoilers tempt no second blow,
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.

“The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn;
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then
Is gathered into death without a dawn,
And the immortal stars awake again;
So is it in the world of living men:
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit’s awful night.”

Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came,
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent;
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow; from her wilds Irene sent
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong,
And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue.

Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,
A phantom among men; companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature’s naked loveliness,
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness,
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.

A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift—
A Love in desolation masked;—a Power
Girt round with weakness;—it can scarce uplift
The weight of the superincumbent hour;
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
A breaking billow;—even whilst we speak
Is it not broken? On the withering flower
The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.

His head was bound with pansies overblown,
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;
And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew
Yet dripping with the forest’s noonday dew,
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart
Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew
He came the last, neglected and apart;
A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter’s dart.

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan
Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band
Who in another’s fate now wept his own,
As in the accents of an unknown land
He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned
The Stranger’s mien, and murmured: “Who art thou?”
He answered not, but with a sudden hand
Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow,
Which was like Cain’s or Christ’s—oh! that it should be so!

What softer voice is hushed over the dead?
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?
What form leans sadly o’er the white death-bed,
In mockery of monumental stone,
The heavy heart heaving without a moan?
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,
Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one,
Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs,
The silence of that heart’s accepted sacrifice.

Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Life’s early cup with such a draught of woe?
The nameless worm would now itself disown:
It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,
But what was howling in one breast alone,
Silent with expectation of the song,
Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!
Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,
Thou noteless blot on a remembered name!
But be thyself, and know thyself to be!
And ever at thy season be thou free
To spill the venom when thy fangs o’erflow:
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—as now.

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled
Far from these carrion kites that scream below;
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead;
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now—
Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow
Back to the burning fountain whence it came,
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow
Through time and change, unquenchably the same,
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—
He hath awakened from the dream of life—
’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife
Invulnerable nothings.—We decay
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain;
Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not he;
Mourn not for Adonais.—Thou young Dawn,
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!
Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air
Which like a mourning veil
Ignatius Hosiana Apr 2015
Someday I'll hold you like you me charms
Look you straight and deep in your eyes
And let you know how much I lust for you
I'll pull your soft body with me masculine arms
Dead close to mine so that you realize
How glamorously my  **** tightens for you
Someday I'll touch your neck with my teeth
I'll graze it so softly that you won't quit
And then pour magical whispers into your ears
The much I've dammed up all these years
I'll place my hard palms beneath your shirt
To softly hard caress your skin so that it'll sweetly hurt
Then I'll place my head onto yours and sigh
Because by this point I'll already be high
Someday I'll be this close and I won't miss
I'll peck your forehead but your lips kiss
You'll shut your eyes and savor my taste
I'll take it one step at a time with no haste
I'll patiently unbutton your outfit
You won't stop me for you'll feel me heat
Someday I'll **** at your beautiful *******
Draped like two cute oranges on your chest
You'll mourn like you're grieved at the pleasure
You'll beg me to quickly find my way inside
But I'll try and keep my control and decide
when to partake of your juicy treasure
Someday I'll explore further down your thighs
Me whom you much loathe and despise
You'll arch like a bow at every touch and laugh like a clown
Yet mourn as I navigate every street of tuna town
You'll beg me to pass through the tunnel of love
And just then I'll swiftly embed myself into nature's glove
I'll place myself above you,I'll be a long awaited burden
You'll hold my posterior as I plough through your garden
Since you say there's no love around here
Further apart your thighs will obediently split
While we make it
Someday we'll walk a thousand miles with no rest
We'll surf the ****** waves till we hit the viperous crest
Nan
A light from our family has gone,
A voice we loved is stilled,
A place is vacant in the home,
Which never can be filled,

We have to mourn the loss of one,
We would of loved to keep,
But God who would of surely loved her best,
Has finally made her sleep,

After a lifetime of her love and joy,
And music to fill our ears,
She leaves us with these memories,
To help us through our tears.
DEW Jun 2016
The living were born
The dead did die
The fear won't let
the sleeping dogs lie
when the shadow comes
creeping
through the town.

The pastors yawn,
the demons frown;
sometimes you're up
sometimes you're down,
but you can't listen
to what the devils say.

I've heard the kettle
whisper
when I came by to
kiss her
but I've never heard God
get comfortable with sin.

I think I'll try getting old
before I lay down to die.
No matter what,
when it ends
I won't let them lie,
no,
but when I lie,
the dead will mourn for me.

There's coffee in the fridge,
there's whisky in the ***,
so many things I did backwards,
like buying your nonsense in lot.

I've been sitting pretty
is it make-up, or is it wit? See...
I don't have to be pretty
to be loved by dumb luck.

When I go out to meet her
I'll be checking my dresser
Hat, shirt and dress, yes sir,
You'll be colored yeller,
but when I die,
it doesn't matter what they see.
Cuz when I lie,
the dead will mourn for me.

I'll be buried empty,
but the plants will have plenty,
of all my meals I'd rather leave behind.
I don't have money,
don't take that to make it sunny,
but I'll be cooking where I'm hard to find.

I've got oil to spare,
to lay your body bare,
and spend your love
to keep my engine running.

I'm devil may care,
I'm angel may stare,
and hope no one's lookin'
when I pass you saucy
love letters.

Arguments fine tuned,
we leave common sense marooned,
when we box pandora up
and let her free...
continually.

I've seen the moon go red
Like every word you said,
and I'd rather chase some ***
then get insurance,
because when I die,
no,
when I lie,
yes,
when I lay down,
the dead will mourn for me.
Can you imagine this as a country song?
I sure can, hahahah.

Not bad, I guess.
I hope some of the meanings and rhetoric and theme of the poem/lyrics are clear to you and for that which isn't, well... keep digging, but don't tell a soul... just kidding :P

Enjoy!

DEW
You left me.
I was alone.
You were supposed to be there,
but you decided who was most important.
I want you to know that it hurt me so bad,
I felt like I had died for a time.
But then I realized it was you who died,
and I mourn your loss.
The ghost of my friend hangs over my shoulder.
And I mourn you.
But this was your choice.
So when its all over,
and you have questions and want answers..
Find a mirror.
Because I won't mourn you forever.
I can't,
Tyler Atherton Sep 2018
To the teachers who never really cared and ignored my problems;

To my fellow “*****”, “misfits”, etc. Who will no doubt receive more abuse upon my passing, as my tormentors will no longer have me to push around;

To those who never cared, never spoke, probably never knew my name;

To the one true friend, whose caring was the only thing that prevented this event from happening sooner;

To the God, if he does exist, who chose to play a cruel, cruel joke on me when he placed me where he did and surrounded me with so many uncaring faces;

What about my teachers? Will they be sorry to see another student become a statistic? Certainly the administration and Principal will mourn, as my death will not reflect well on them as an institution. Well, I apologize for making the statistics for your administration worse. But I don’t expect an apology for the false sympathies of people.

As for my fellow students, those who made a more significant impact on my life, I know better than to expect my tormentors to mourn.

There’s another group I have not yet addressed: those not like me who left me alone. Or should I say ignored me. I appreciate you sparing me any further harassment, but your inaction, your withheld hellos and how are you’s  did more hurt than any name calling. Your inaction effectively excluded me from student life, from the human race. You left me isolated and alone, and no words I could say can convey to you the suffering you caused. I could name names, but in doing so, I would do more now for you than you ever did for me in life.

I do not know what awaits me when I get down off this rope. Will there be a void? Or will I come face to face with God? I just don’t care anymore. If you’re anything like your people, I wouldn’t want to know you. You preached to love one another, yet I’ve felt everything except love from Christians. Even if I knew you were different, well, I'd still reject you. You have left your “followers” to treat people like me poorly. You have allowed so many of the people you “love”, including me, to suffer. So you want me to trust you with my life? I don’t want to spend eternity with a careless deity like you, or with the company you keep.

I’m trying to watch TV but I don’t know what I’m watching. It’s so lonely here. I want to sleep but it just won’t come. I’m so tired of hurting and being alone.

I hope that with my death, there'll be a wider awareness for child abuse and the effects it could have on a person. That's the only wish I have right now. A lot of people will be hurt with my passing, disappointed even, or maybe it won't matter. But I'd like to believe, no matter how much of a ****** up person I am, I died for a cause greater and bigger than myself. That's the only consolation that I have right now.

So that’s it. That’s me. Leaving the world to be a better place.

Goodbye - T



© Copyright Tyler Atherton
September Roses Aug 2018
The satin gown of hope a myth
      
   The heroes fallen                                      
                                    to the abyss

The bloom of death, no longer risen
Our souls trapped in endless prison

        Existence the master of all
        masked curses
    
              A song of tragedy with endless
              verses

   So if dying breath comes anyway
                  What's it matter
                 How soon the day

All suns set
Some plan no dawn
They care not for those who mourn

           I wish myself
      The blood to stop
     To soon not hold
   A single drop

So I promise you my heart for free
       If you swear
   You'll rip it out of me
why doesn't hello poetry like metaphorical Shakespearean poetry? its so pretty?
Empire Mar 2019
I want to mourn
For all of me that died
So much of me died
All that’s left is this shell
Remnants of a person
I want to mourn
Because it hurts
I think
I wouldn’t know
Because I chose to silence it
Intervention in my death
I stopped dying
But I wasn’t revived
Just not dying
And now here I am
Not dying
But I’m so dead
Necrotic
And I can’t mourn
I can’t make the tears come
Because of that little white circle
I place on my tongue at night
It kept me from dying
But I’m not better
Just paused
I can’t mourn
All of me
That I lost
I might have had a panic attack.
My hands are still shaking.
Alyssa Underwood Aug 2017
“Come now, and let us reason together,”
Says the LORD,
“Though your sins are as scarlet,
They will be as white as snow;
Though they are red like crimson,
They will be like wool.
If you consent and obey,
You will eat the best of the land;
But if you refuse and rebel,
You will be devoured by the sword.”
Truly, the mouth of the LORD has spoken...
Come, house of Jacob, and let us walk in the light of the LORD.
~ Isaiah 1:18-20 & 2:5


Surely our griefs He Himself bore,
And our sorrows He carried;
Yet we ourselves esteemed Him stricken,
Smitten of God, and afflicted.
But He was pierced through for our transgressions,
He was crushed for our iniquities;
The chastening for our well-being fell upon Him,
And by His scourging we are healed.
All of us like sheep have gone astray,
Each of us has turned to his own way;
But the Lord has caused the iniquity of us all
To fall on Him.
~ Isaiah 53:4-6


“**! Everyone who thirsts, come to the waters;
And you who have no money come, buy and eat.
Come, buy wine and milk
Without money and without cost.
Why do you spend money for what is not bread,
And your wages for what does not satisfy?
Listen carefully to Me, and eat what is good,
And delight yourself in abundance.
Incline your ear and come to Me.
Listen, that you may live;
And I will make an everlasting covenant with you,
According to the faithful mercies shown to David...“
Seek the LORD while He may be found;
Call upon Him while He is near.
Let the wicked forsake his way
And the unrighteous man his thoughts;
And let him return to the LORD,
And He will have compassion on him,
And to our God,
For He will abundantly pardon.
“For My thoughts are not your thoughts,
Nor are your ways My ways,” declares the LORD.
“For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
So are My ways higher than your ways
And My thoughts than your thoughts.“
~ Isaiah 55:1-3,6-9


The Spirit of the LORD God is upon me,
Because the LORD has anointed me
To bring good news to the afflicted;
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to captives
And freedom to prisoners;
To proclaim the favorable year of the LORD
And the day of vengeance of our God;
To comfort all who mourn,
To grant those who mourn in Zion,
Giving them a garland instead of ashes,
The oil of gladness instead of mourning,
The mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting.
So they will be called oaks of righteousness,
The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified...
I will rejoice greatly in the LORD,
My soul will exult in my God;
For He has clothed me with garments of salvation,
He has wrapped me with a robe of righteousness,
As a bridegroom decks himself with a garland,
And as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.
For as the earth brings forth its sprouts,
And as a garden causes the things sown in it to spring up,
So the LORD God will cause righteousness and praise
To spring up before all the nations.
~ Isaiah 61:1-3,10-11
By David John Mowers

Oceanus, Acheron, Styx and Gyges, Phlegethon,

Phaeacians lament, mourn the loss, Scheria, dissolved in froths.

Virgil’s tale, found correct, a land too good, a nation wrecked,

Nausikaa, burn the ships; their minds released, cool airy nips,

Below the wave, watery grave, submerged to bottom, fathoms by stave,

Fathoms some more, until the whorl, descending to, another world.

Through Omphalos, to Land of Sleep, awaits a beast, where time has ceased,

Darkness here, underworld, cold and frigid, below the whirl,

In solemn grave, souls released, judged and counted, by the beast,

Deeper than, the deep itself, past drowning fairies and dying elves,

Who did mourn them? Those golden men, magic mariners, Mino's kin?

What wrong was seen? What vice not true? What awful sin? What did they do?

One thousand years, first black age, Two thousand more, to find the stage,

Cast off Aries and cast Orion, to find beginning, of Golden Lion.

Man of Heavens, Beast agrees, Bull of Sky, Ox of seas,

Land of Punt, Land of Éire, Ogyges blue, hearts on fire,

All the seashores, all the mines, Tribe of Dan, from ancient times,

Port of Sais, Port of Thera, Port of Lagash, bygone era,

Sailor’s horse, Minotaur, a lyre is crying, strummed guitar, nation dying, abattoir.

Ochre foams to sanguine depth, there they rested, where Kronos slept,

He’ll never answer, he doesn’t care, we’ll never know, if this was fair.

Our hearts in sadness, hands on the gates! I curse you Poseidon!

. . .and your Sea of Fates!
Every historical and mythological reference to the kingdom of Atlantis which was destroyed by it's founder; Poseidon. All of the characters including the archaeological agreement on the historical basis along with Geo-location as well as an approximate age of occurrence, extent of the kingdom set to metered rhyme.
Thus did they make their moan throughout the city, while the
Achaeans when they reached the Hellespont went back every man to his
own ship. But Achilles would not let the Myrmidons go, and spoke to
his brave comrades saying, “Myrmidons, famed horsemen and my own
trusted friends, not yet, forsooth, let us unyoke, but with horse
and chariot draw near to the body and mourn Patroclus, in due honour
to the dead. When we have had full comfort of lamentation we will
unyoke our horses and take supper all of us here.”
  On this they all joined in a cry of wailing and Achilles led them in
their lament. Thrice did they drive their chariots all sorrowing round
the body, and Thetis stirred within them a still deeper yearning.
The sands of the seashore and the men’s armour were wet with their
weeping, so great a minister of fear was he whom they had lost.
Chief in all their mourning was the son of Peleus: he laid his
bloodstained hand on the breast of his friend. “Fare well,” he
cried, “Patroclus, even in the house of Hades. I will now do all
that I erewhile promised you; I will drag Hector hither and let dogs
devour him raw; twelve noble sons of Trojans will I also slay before
your pyre to avenge you.”
  As he spoke he treated the body of noble Hector with contumely,
laying it at full length in the dust beside the bier of Patroclus. The
others then put off every man his armour, took the horses from their
chariots, and seated themselves in great multitude by the ship of
the fleet descendant of Aeacus, who thereon feasted them with an
abundant funeral banquet. Many a goodly ox, with many a sheep and
bleating goat did they butcher and cut up; many a tusked boar
moreover, fat and well-fed, did they singe and set to roast in the
flames of Vulcan; and rivulets of blood flowed all round the place
where the body was lying.
  Then the princes of the Achaeans took the son of Peleus to
Agamemnon, but hardly could they persuade him to come with them, so
wroth was he for the death of his comrade. As soon as they reached
Agamemnon’s tent they told the serving-men to set a large tripod
over the fire in case they might persuade the son of Peleus ‘to wash
the clotted gore from this body, but he denied them sternly, and swore
it with a solemn oath, saying, “Nay, by King Jove, first and mightiest
of all gods, it is not meet that water should touch my body, till I
have laid Patroclus on the flames, have built him a barrow, and shaved
my head—for so long as I live no such second sorrow shall ever draw
nigh me. Now, therefore, let us do all that this sad festival demands,
but at break of day, King Agamemnon, bid your men bring wood, and
provide all else that the dead may duly take into the realm of
darkness; the fire shall thus burn him out of our sight the sooner,
and the people shall turn again to their own labours.”
  Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. They made haste
to prepare the meal, they ate, and every man had his full share so
that all were satisfied. As soon as they had had had enough to eat and
drink, the others went to their rest each in his own tent, but the son
of Peleus lay grieving among his Myrmidons by the shore of the
sounding sea, in an open place where the waves came surging in one
after another. Here a very deep slumber took hold upon him and eased
the burden of his sorrows, for his limbs were weary with chasing
Hector round windy Ilius. Presently the sad spirit of Patroclus drew
near him, like what he had been in stature, voice, and the light of
his beaming eyes, clad, too, as he had been clad in life. The spirit
hovered over his head and said-
  “You sleep, Achilles, and have forgotten me; you loved me living,
but now that I am dead you think for me no further. Bury me with all
speed that I may pass the gates of Hades; the ghosts, vain shadows
of men that can labour no more, drive me away from them; they will not
yet suffer me to join those that are beyond the river, and I wander
all desolate by the wide gates of the house of Hades. Give me now your
hand I pray you, for when you have once given me my dues of fire,
never shall I again come forth out of the house of Hades. Nevermore
shall we sit apart and take sweet counsel among the living; the
cruel fate which was my birth-right has yawned its wide jaws around
me—nay, you too Achilles, peer of gods, are doomed to die beneath the
wall of the noble Trojans.
  “One prayer more will I make you, if you will grant it; let not my
bones be laid apart from yours, Achilles, but with them; even as we
were brought up together in your own home, what time Menoetius brought
me to you as a child from Opoeis because by a sad spite I had killed
the son of Amphidamas—not of set purpose, but in childish quarrel
over the dice. The knight Peleus took me into his house, entreated
me kindly, and named me to be your squire; therefore let our bones lie
in but a single urn, the two-handled golden vase given to you by
your mother.”
  And Achilles answered, “Why, true heart, are you come hither to
lay these charges upon me? will of my own self do all as you have
bidden me. Draw closer to me, let us once more throw our arms around
one another, and find sad comfort in the sharing of our sorrows.”
  He opened his arms towards him as he spoke and would have clasped
him in them, but there was nothing, and the spirit vanished as a
vapour, gibbering and whining into the earth. Achilles sprang to his
feet, smote his two hands, and made lamentation saying, “Of a truth
even in the house of Hades there are ghosts and phantoms that have
no life in them; all night long the sad spirit of Patroclus has
hovered over head making piteous moan, telling me what I am to do
for him, and looking wondrously like himself.”
  Thus did he speak and his words set them all weeping and mourning
about the poor dumb dead, till rosy-fingered morn appeared. Then
King Agamemnon sent men and mules from all parts of the camp, to bring
wood, and Meriones, squire to Idomeneus, was in charge over them. They
went out with woodmen’s axes and strong ropes in their hands, and
before them went the mules. Up hill and down dale did they go, by
straight ways and crooked, and when they reached the heights of
many-fountained Ida, they laid their axes to the roots of many a
tall branching oak that came thundering down as they felled it. They
split the trees and bound them behind the mules, which then wended
their way as they best could through the thick brushwood on to the
plain. All who had been cutting wood bore logs, for so Meriones squire
to Idomeneus had bidden them, and they threw them down in a line
upon the seashore at the place where Achilles would make a mighty
monument for Patroclus and for himself.
  When they had thrown down their great logs of wood over the whole
ground, they stayed all of them where they were, but Achilles
ordered his brave Myrmidons to gird on their armour, and to yoke
each man his horses; they therefore rose, girded on their armour and
mounted each his chariot—they and their charioteers with them. The
chariots went before, and they that were on foot followed as a cloud
in their tens of thousands after. In the midst of them his comrades
bore Patroclus and covered him with the locks of their hair which they
cut off and threw upon his body. Last came Achilles with his head
bowed for sorrow, so noble a comrade was he taking to the house of
Hades.
  When they came to the place of which Achilles had told them they
laid the body down and built up the wood. Achilles then bethought
him of another matter. He went a space away from the pyre, and cut off
the yellow lock which he had let grow for the river Spercheius. He
looked all sorrowfully out upon the dark sea, and said, “Spercheius,
in vain did my father Peleus vow to you that when I returned home to
my loved native land I should cut off this lock and offer you a holy
hecatomb; fifty she-goats was I to sacrifice to you there at your
springs, where is your grove and your altar fragrant with
burnt-offerings. Thus did my father vow, but you have not fulfilled
his prayer; now, therefore, that I shall see my home no more, I give
this lock as a keepsake to the hero Patroclus.”
  As he spoke he placed the lock in the hands of his dear comrade, and
all who stood by were filled with yearning and lamentation. The sun
would have gone down upon their mourning had not Achilles presently
said to Agamemnon, “Son of Atreus, for it is to you that the people
will give ear, there is a time to mourn and a time to cease from
mourning; bid the people now leave the pyre and set about getting
their dinners: we, to whom the dead is dearest, will see to what is
wanted here, and let the other princes also stay by me.”
  When King Agamemnon heard this he dismissed the people to their
ships, but those who were about the dead heaped up wood and built a
pyre a hundred feet this way and that; then they laid the dead all
sorrowfully upon the top of it. They flayed and dressed many fat sheep
and oxen before the pyre, and Achilles took fat from all of them and
wrapped the body therein from head to foot, heaping the flayed
carcases all round it. Against the bier he leaned two-handled jars
of honey and unguents; four proud horses did he then cast upon the
pyre, groaning the while he did so. The dead hero had had
house-dogs; two of them did Achilles slay and threw upon the pyre;
he also put twelve brave sons of noble Trojans to the sword and laid
them with the rest, for he was full of bitterness and fury. Then he
committed all to the resistless and devouring might of the fire; he
groaned aloud and callid on his dead comrade by name. “Fare well,”
he cried, “Patroclus, even in the house of Hades; I am now doing all
that I have promised you. Twelve brave sons of noble Trojans shall the
flames consume along with yourself, but dogs, not fire, shall devour
the flesh of Hector son of Priam.”
  Thus did he vaunt, but the dogs came not about the body of Hector,
for Jove’s daughter Venus kept them off him night and day, and
anointed him with ambrosial oil of roses that his flesh might not be
torn when Achilles was dragging him about. Phoebus Apollo moreover
sent a dark cloud from heaven to earth, which gave shade to the
whole place where Hector lay, that the heat of the sun might not parch
his body.
  Now the pyre about dead Patroclus would not kindle. Achilles
therefore bethought him of another matter; he went apart and prayed to
the two winds Boreas and Zephyrus vowing them goodly offerings. He
made them many drink-offerings from the golden cup and besought them
to come and help him that the wood might make haste to kindle and
the dead bodies be consumed. Fleet Iris heard him praying and
started off to fetch the winds. They were holding high feast in the
house of boisterous Zephyrus when Iris came running up to the stone
threshold of the house and stood there, but as soon as they set eyes
on her they all came towards her and each of them called her to him,
but Iris would not sit down. “I cannot stay,” she said, “I must go
back to the streams of Oceanus and the land of the Ethiopians who
are offering hecatombs to the immortals, and I would have my share;
but Achilles prays that Boreas and shrill Zephyrus will come to him,
and he vows them goodly offerings; he would have you blow upon the
pyre of Patroclus for whom all the Achaeans are lamenting.”
  With this she left them, and the two winds rose with a cry that rent
the air and swept the clouds before them. They blew on and on until
they came to the sea, and the waves rose high beneath them, but when
they reached Troy they fell upon the pyre till the mighty flames
roared under the blast that they blew. All night long did they blow
hard and beat upon the fire, and all night long did Achilles grasp his
double cup, drawing wine from a mixing-bowl of gold, and calling
upon the spirit of dead Patroclus as he poured it upon the ground
until the earth was drenched. As a father mourns when he is burning
the bones of his bridegroom son whose death has wrung the hearts of
his parents, even so did Achilles mourn while burning the body of
his comrade, pacing round the bier with piteous groaning and
lamentation.
  At length as the Morning Star was beginning to herald the light
which saffron-mantled Dawn was soon to suffuse over the sea, the
flames fell and the fire began to die. The winds then went home beyond
the Thracian sea, which roared and boiled as they swept over it. The
son of Peleus now turned away from the pyre and lay down, overcome
with toil, till he fell into a sweet slumber. Presently they who
were about the son of Atreus drew near in a body, and roused him
with the noise and ***** of their coming. He sat upright and said,
“Son of Atreus, and all other princes of the Achaeans, first pour
red wine everywhere upon the fire and quench it; let us then gather
the bones of Patroclus son of Menoetius, singling them out with
care; they are easily found, for they lie in the middle of the pyre,
while all else, both men and horses, has been thrown in a heap and
burned at the outer edge. We will lay the bones in a golden urn, in
two layers of fat, against the time when I shall myself go down into
the house of Hades. As for the barrow, labour not to raise a great one
now, but such as is reasonable. Afterwards, let those Achaeans who may
be left at the ships when I am gone, build it both broad and high.”
  Thus he spoke and they obeyed the word of the son of Peleus. First
they poured red wine upon the thick layer of ashes and quenched the
fire. With many tears they singled out the whitened bones of their
loved comrade and laid them within a golden urn in two layers of
fat: they then covered the urn with a linen cloth and took it inside
the tent. They marked off the circle where the barrow should be,
made a foundation for it about the pyre, and forthwith heaped up the
earth. When they had thus raised a mound they were going away, but
Achilles stayed the people and made them sit in assembly. He brought
prizes from the ships-cauldrons, tripods, horses and mules, noble
oxen, women with fair girdles, and swart iron.
  The first prize he offered was for the chariot races—a woman
skilled in all useful arts, and a three-legged cauldron that had
ears for handles, and would hold twenty-two measures. This was for the
man who came in first. For the second there was a six-year old mare,
unbroken, and in foal to a he-***; the third was to have a goodly
cauldron that had never yet been on the fire; it was still bright as
when it left the maker, and would hold four measures. The fourth prize
was two talents of gold, and the fifth a two-handled urn as yet
unsoiled by smoke. Then he stood up and spoke among the Argives
saying-
  “Son of Atreus, and all other Achaeans, these are the prizes that
lie waiting the winners of the chariot races. At any other time I
should carry off the first prize and take it to my own tent; you
know how far my steeds excel all others—for they are immortal;
Neptune gave them to my father Peleus, who in his turn gave them to
myself; but I shall hold aloof, I and my steeds that have lost their
brave and kind driver, who many a time has washed them in clear
water and anointed their manes with oil. See how they stand weeping
here, with their manes trailing on the ground in the extremity of
their sorrow. But do you others set yourselves in order throughout the
host, whosoever has confidence in his horses and in the strength of
his chariot.”
  Thus spoke the son of Peleus and the drivers of chariots bestirred
themselves. First among them all uprose Eumelus, king of men, son of
Admetus, a man excellent in horsemanship. Next to him rose mighty
Diomed son of Tydeus; he yoked the Trojan horses which he had taken
from Aeneas, when Apollo bore him out of the fight. Next to him,
yellow-haired Menelaus son of Atreus rose and yoked his fleet
horses, Agamemnon’s mare Aethe, and his own horse Podargus. The mare
had been given to Agamemnon by echepolus son of Anchises, that he
might not have to follow him to Ilius, but might stay at home and take
his ease; for Jove had endowed him with great wealth and he lived in
spacious
Hoshontomba Jul 2016
Celebrate your corporate-create version
of this holiday as you have your break from work -
you deserve a day off from your grind -
but don't
talk about how great America once was.

When?

Don't talk about how this "represents"
freedom
"for everyone"

It doesn't.

Red,
white,
and blue
for the blood of my people
the skin of our invaders
and Creator weeping while watching
the sky so vast above us.

Red,
white,
and blue
to distract you from the events...
the genocide,
the slavery
that led you to the freedom you have today;
patriotism like a blindfold over your not-so-kind eyes.

Remember those in mourning
over the many great losses Native tribes
& nations
have experienced
in the name of freedom.

This so-called once great nation
was built
on the graves of my people,
the backs of another
and still we cannot mourn without words -
slurs -
like redskin and squaw and ***** and savage
the list goes on
being thrown our way.

For choosing not to participate
or celebrate
the genocide of our own
the enslavement of others
the harassment and murders and hate
of people of color
all in the name
of stealing this land,
we are deprived of our right
to grieve in peace.

So what is freedom
if not given to all?
Think about that instead of the beer
in your back yard;
think about that while we smudge
while we honor our veterans.

Just let us mourn.
This is a rough second draft! On the inclusion of slurs, there are many worse, but these are the most common that I see/am called.
They are the evil behind the mask,
they live in our homes,
share same bed with us,
in their arms we are ensnared
they are the evil behind the mask.
At their scenes of play:
we mourn our fathers,
we mourn our mothers,
we mourn our uncles,
we mourn our aunties,
we buried our friends.

Before our very own eyes they are massacred in cold blooded.
By the aliens behind the mask.
From afar i beheld the ravages of our camp.
At my gaze eyes failed to blink,
as it rained as of a heavy downpour.
even lucifer paused in marvel
at their horrible scenes of play.

They are the evil behind the mask,
their name boko,others haram.
People laments,others mourn.
Our camp is known in wailing.sitted on the lips of our folks
mournful songs of their gone children,
all at the hands of the aliens behind the mask.

They live in our homes,
share same bed with us,
enjoy the delicacies of our meal,
they are the evil behind the mask.
They are the ******* and the menace of the community.
Their name boko,others haram,
people Laments.
They are the evil behind the mask.
Asim Javid Nov 2015
I woke up this morning and my name flashed on T.V.
They said i blew up places , they said i killed masses .
Men , women & children I murdered them all.
Who am I ?
I am a muslim and i am taking this fall.
They used my name and spread the terror.
I am not them , it surely is an error.
We, muslims, are the holders of peace , we spread love.
Why am I being  represented by their false actions.
I am a person, with different notions.
World will now brand me a terrorist.
Don't judge me by their actions , I insist.
I am not them, they pilfered my name.
They inflicted libel , and my religion to defame .
I have been robbed , robbed of my name.
I am a muslim , human like you , all the same.
My name has been robbed , my identity stolen
I deprecate the terror and mourn for fallen.
There are millions like me and humanity lies in our depths.
But we are all victims of Identity Theft* ...............
We Muslims condemn  the Paris attack.
Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not ******
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.
Christina Gillam Apr 2010
I’ll ne'er forget that day
The sky a lavender canvas outstretched
It was the day I broke my timepiece
And the puppets called me wretch

My empire of daisies wilted 'round me
Closing me into my grave
I was buried with my handgun
Under layers of black lace

And the sea doesn’t weep
And they birds they still sing
All the colors haven’t faded
Why don’t they mourn for me?

The stars haven’t dimmed
No expression grey or grim
I hear a distant happy hymn
Why don’t they mourn for me?

I’ve restrung my violin
To play my sorrowful song
I won’t drown in my self pity
For I’ve been dead for far too long

And the sea doesn’t weep
And they birds they still sing
All the colors haven’t faded
Why don’t they mourn for me?

The stars haven’t dimmed
No expression grey or grim
I hear a distant happy hymn
Why don’t they mourn for me?
Kitt Nov 2018
It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
The hour where naught is awake but
Lovers and dreamers
And those deemed too far gone by the rest of us;
To which we send a wilting flower.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
Here I mourn the loss of life
When I took a sterile sword to my own heart
And peered into the gaping, gaping void
Dissolving away the ghost that haunts my hollow tower.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
I mourn the incursion that initiated it
Mourn a life I have known so well
As well as a life I think I shall not meet
Tied, side by side, in a waking melancholy sour.

It's three in the morning
The mourning hour.
Doves less mournful than I have passed on to sleep
And he is, as I dream, forming faster each day
Only now, in death, so dear to me
And I reach out, into the darkness of the night
And end the mourning hour.
An eternal grieving I shall bear forevermore.
celestial Apr 2017
the earth and the stars will mourn for you
the mountains will tremble and break
for you the heavens will fall through

there is the night that i will eternally rue
seven days after which you did forsake
the earth and the stars will mourn for you

my skies have absorbed a blackened hue
where your hurricanes continue to shake
for you the heavens will fall though

i hear the songs of celestial angels who
take hold of my heart and make it ache
the earth and the stars will mourn for you

drowning in your echoes and collapsing into
my dreams of you and praying to never wake
the earth and the stars will mourn for you
for you the heavens will fall though
still raw. still imperfect. still incomplete.
Tim S Nov 2016
I thought I would be raising a glass to freedom.
But my counterparts didn't know that history had its eyes on us.
The choices seemed apparent,
Yet, we have been left bewildered and scrambling -
Wondering whether we did all we can.

My glass is raised to freedom -
The end of freedom.
History has repeated itself.
The beginning of the end.
And thunderous applause filled the amphitheater.

Those that have felt wronged have decided the fates of those that have had no wrong doing.
Two exes.
One overwhelming Y...
It's ineffable.

We may weep and mourn today.
We may weep and mourn tomorrow.
We may be frozen in the moment -
But our legacy isn't etched in stone.
It can be changed by us all if we choose..

These sleepless nights will wear us down.
The disrupted R.E.M. may disrupt our rest.
But we must only rest until we are capable to go on.
And when we move, we will move as a force of love.

Love will oust the darkness that has descended upon us.
Love will out.
Truth will out.
We will endure the worst and rise.

And then we will raise a glass to freedom.
We will raise a glass to all.
We will raise a glass and drink to the revolution-
The revolution that will be a beacon of light for those that need it most.  

In a sea of red we will be the silver lining
In a sea of red we will be the light.
We will call those home.
We will call to those that need us most.
We will be united against the fear.

We will rise and rise and rise.
We will rise until lambs become lions.
We will overcome.
We will show them that we cannot be killed or swept aside.
We will rise up.
This is obviously based on current events in my home of the United States. I learned we are far more divided than united than I could have ever imagined. My heart breaks for my LGBT friends. It breaks for my female friends. It breaks for all of my friends that are minorities in some way, shape, or form. I've been so inspired by Lin Manuel Miranda and his work of Hamilton. This is a testament to him. This is a testament to the nation we should be.
Chris Voss Jan 2014
When my grandfather passed away, my brothers and I held my dad with slanted eyebrows and stiff, silent upper lips. Because we are young and foolish and still learning. Because we’d never really had to do the holding before and, as far as we knew, this is how men mourn.

We dusted antique left-behinds with delicate, moth-wing hands that fluttered here and there and never stopped trembling -- dead giveaways that within the corridors of our arms our heartbeats went stampeding, arrhythmic. We couldn’t quite bend them into the proper shape for prayer, so instead we ran them, with touch somewhere between float and feel, along every ashtray and age-stained picture album. In that moment I think we each wished that memory read like braille, but no one ever said as much. Because this is how men mourn.

We honored our patriarch with whiskey, hidden away for what must have been twice my age, between the carved out pages of old stacked books.
We drank like secrets. His portrait played witness.

We promised between our teeth with tinged lips tight, keeping words in that might otherwise crumble us like great ancient empires.

We singed and smoldered in a burn that coated our throats, quelling a choke that kept climbing its way up from a chest that never quite stayed sunk. Boys grow up loving the clinking twist of unlocking deadbolts but men peek through keyholes. Because this is how men mourn. Silent and straight with head only slightly slanted.

But when my father betrayed his rigidity with words that clicked clean like unfastening locks, we traded this stale air in for wind laced with the electric taste of thunderstorms. We forgot how men mourn.

When my grandfather passed away, my brothers and I held my dad with lightning behind bleared eyes. Because we are young and foolish and still learning. Because we have umpteen days left to dress in bittersweet vestiges and, as far as we know, this is how men live on.

— The End —